


Yield For You

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Also Not Really a Romance, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, But Probably Not Accurate, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hand Jobs, Historical, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, but sort of, pre-Eliza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Washington has wanted Hamilton for months, and Hamilton exhibits poor impulse control.





	

There are a lot of truths Hamilton has to learn quickly when he sets aside his combat duties in order to pick up George Washington's quill. He's always been a quick study, but this is a different side of how the war is fought. It's an avalanche of logistics, correspondence, orders. Briefs and maps and strategies. These are the true inner workings of Washington's war cabinet, and Hamilton learns on his feet.

But the most important thing he learns is: George Washington is not perfect.

The general is, in many ways, a great man. He's the _only_ man who has any chance of pulling off the victory they need against the British forces . But he isn't perfect. Beneath Washington's stern, steady calm lies a potent temper. Prickly, volatile and dangerous—but fiercely controlled. Hamilton has only seen the loss of that control a handful of times, and he suspects he's one of the few who ever will. In wartime—in the building of an uncertain future for their new nation—the _myth_ of George Washington is every bit as important as the man. 

The rebels need him. They need everything he can do. They need the symbol he presents of a united front.

Hamilton needs him. As a friend. As a patron. As a guiding hand. Hamilton's pride does not submit easily. There's a reason he turned down so many promotions that would have taken him out of the line of fire—he wants to _fight_ —but there was something inexorable in the general's tone when he called Hamilton out. Something that told him his pride wasn't the voice to listen to this time. Something that made it painfully and perfectly clear: Washington needs him, too.

Hamilton has stepped up to every challenge in his new post. He's taken liberties, taken control wherever uncertainty arises. He's taken a position of unassailable authority over the rest of Washington's staff, despite the fact that most of them are years older and more experienced. No one has protested his efforts, which tells Hamilton all he needs to know. He has positioned himself so firmly at Washington's right hand that death alone will dislodge him. And while he still aches to fight the real battles of this war—to be given the command position he's earned—he can't deny that he belongs _here_. Exactly where he is. At Washington's side.

Hamilton makes himself a promise never to speak a public word against his commander in chief, and it's a vow as personal as it is professional.

"Hamilton, wake up."

He slips smoothly awake at the feeling of cool fingers shaking his shoulder. He's always slept lightly—when he sleeps at all—and it doesn't help that accommodations are tight and uncomfortable. Washington insists on having all his aides close at hand, under the same roof. At the moment that roof is a tavern they've requisitioned for their entire stay at Morristown, and Hamilton's bedroll is squashed in one corner of a room barely large enough to hold the half dozen men Washington keeps constantly on call.

It's Harrison jostling Hamilton awake now, and from the look of him the man hasn't slept yet tonight. "Washington wants you upstairs."

Hamilton doesn't tarry. He didn't mean to sleep more than twenty desperate minutes himself, which means he's still in military dress, albeit rumpled around the edges. The cold wind sneaking through the drafty tavern would have made him reluctant to shed his coat in any case, and all he has now is to don his boots and sweep his hair tightly back. Close enough to presentable; Washington doesn't expect perfection when summoning his men in the middle of the night.

The stairs creak noisily beneath Hamilton's boots as he mounts to the second floor of the tavern. There are only a handful of doors off the narrow hallway, and only one that matters. Firelight glints from the gap beneath the door, and Hamilton doesn't bother knocking before grabbing the latch and striding through.

There's nothing unusual in the late hour and interrupted sleep. This is _why_ Washington insists on having his team close at hand—so they're prepared for news at any hour, day or night—so that there's no delay in making and conveying strategic decisions.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Hamilton closes the door behind him and stands at attention. He doesn't hold his spine quite as stiff as he might if he were less exhausted, or if there were anyone in this room besides Washington and himself.

The room, normally one of the tavern's bunks for rent, has been converted into an office full of the necessary accoutrements of wartime. Washington's desk is an enormous oak table, meticulously organized despite the massive array of documents and correspondence cluttering the smooth surface. A second table, smaller but no less sturdy, stands behind the door, piled high with maps and quills, ink pots, extra candles, foolscap, sticks of red wax. There's a fireplace, brightly and warmly lit against the winter chill. And against the only other wall—the one where a tiny, dirty window lets in only darkness—a short row of wooden chairs stands as though at attention, waiting to be needed.

Washington doesn't sleep here, but he might as well, for as little as he sets foot outside this office when he isn't seeing to his troops.

"I need you to draft a letter." Washington doesn't stand or look up from the document in his hands. "A stern rebuke, but one that won't inspire General Fredericks to do anything rash."

There's a moment before Hamilton answers—a moment where he's distracted by the sight of Washington's large hands straightening a pile of papers and setting them aside—a moment where his skin warms despite the cool night air.

Then he hears his own voice answer, "Of course, Your Excellency."

Washington's gaze rises, and there's a flash of something Hamilton can't read behind those dark eyes. Something piercing and sharp and indecipherable. Hamilton's chest tightens in response, but he moves quickly, fetching a chair and seating himself opposite Washington at the wide desk. He shifts the candle nearer so he can work, reaches for pen and ink, then sits poised. Awaiting instructions.

A letter like this is a delicate balancing act. Hamilton could draft the entire thing himself, but he waits until Washington starts talking. It's not a detailed dictation. In the time they've been working together—the time Hamilton has been rendering himself indispensable—Washington has learned just how little guidance he requires. Broad strokes, basic intent, a fragment of the meaning that needs to come across. These are all Hamilton needs, and the rest his mind supplies readily, filling in the blanks and crafting exactly the words Washington doesn't have time to polish for himself.

Despite Hamilton's impressive speed, it takes them over an hour to complete the task. He's not sure when Harrison woke him, but something tells him dawn isn't far off. When the last page of the letter is dry, Hamilton sets it aside and raises his eyes to Washington's face.

He finds that sharp, unreadable _something_ once more in the general's look. Watchful. Piercing straight through Hamilton's quiet bluster, as though he can see every closely guarded secret. It's not a comfortable feeling, and Hamilton barely resists the unbidden urge to fidget as he stares back hard across the desk. He manages to keep himself perfectly still, which means it's Washington who moves first. 

There's a heavy scrape of chair legs as Washington rises from behind the desk, standing with uncharacteristic stiffness. He rounds the desk, but turns his back to Hamilton as he moves to the table behind the door. Picks up a stick of sealing wax. It's a perfectly reasonable excuse to move, but something in the general's posture tells Hamilton it _is_ an excuse.

Hamilton's brow furrows as he stands. "Is everything all right, sir?"

Washington's shoulders stiffen visibly at the question, and he sets the red stick of wax aside. His voice is as smooth and controlled as ever. "Go rest while you can." 

It's a dismissal, but without the formal trappings Hamilton is accustomed to. Strange enough that, for once, Hamilton doesn't obey. He crosses the room instead of leaving, passing the heavy door and hesitating. Not sure if he should say something—not sure _what_ he should say—which is, in itself, an unfamiliar feeling.

"Sir?"

On the table, Washington's hands close into tight fists. The gesture doesn't scare or startle Hamilton, but it does prick his curiosity. It's obvious from the wiry tension in Washington's spine that something is wrong, and that, whatever it is, the problem is none of the usual woes of wartime. This is something new. Something Washington clearly doesn't want to tell him—and something Hamilton should leave well enough alone.

Of course Hamilton isn't going to leave it alone.

"Your Excellency, if something else is troubling you—" He drops silent when Washington twists in place to regard him over one strong shoulder. The glint in Washington's eyes looks more like fire now, and Hamilton doesn't know what to make of it. He suddenly can't breathe.

"Why are you still standing there?" Washington asks, and the sound of his voice sends a shiver straight down Hamilton's spine. He can tell the question is meant as a reproach, but there's no sign now of Washington's usual steady calm. The words are low gravel, heavy with… something.

Hamilton should retreat. He should obey orders, no matter how unusual. He should go back to his bedroll on the floor below, for what little of the night remains, and pretend he never saw the storm front in Washington's countenance. It's the smart thing to do. Retreat, regroup, keep a closer eye on his commander and wait for a better opening. Hamilton's rational mind supplies all of this information in the span of an instant.

His feet carry him forward instead. He hears a short, sharp breath and Hamilton's pulse pounds faster beneath his skin as Washington's strained expression of control shatters to a thousand pieces.

" _Stop_ ," Washington says. Quiet. Emphatic. Impossible to resist.

He freezes at Washington's side. Washington is still staring at him. It's a standoff, and Hamilton has never felt more out of his depth. He doesn't know what this is. He doesn't know why his entire body suddenly aches to take just one more step forward.

He holds perfectly still instead.

When Washington moves, it's with an almost violent surge of energy, taking his hands off the table, and rounding on him so suddenly that Hamilton _does_ startle back a step. But Washington keeps coming, twisting strong fingers in the front of Hamilton's uniform, shoving him back so hard he stumbles. But he doesn't fall—Washington holds him too securely for that—and a moment later Hamilton's back collides with the sturdy wood of the door. The vibration of the impact doesn't hurt, but it runs the length of Hamilton's spine, shivering through him like a promise.

He doesn't remember raising his own hands, but he's clutching at Washington's arms, holding on as though for balance. Or sanity. Staring up into the general's face as Washington looms impossibly close—trapping him against the door, filling Hamilton's personal space like a foregone conclusion.

And now— _now_ —Hamilton begins to understand. A quiet voice of comprehension at the back of his mind, barely audible through the racket of surprise and confusion and bald disbelief. Beneath it all runs a hungrier undercurrent. His heart is practically humming in his chest, as the ache suffusing him twists louder and louder beneath his skin.

Stillness settles between them, taut and untenable. A temporary stalemate. A weightless hesitation. A single, impossible instant before everything changes. Hamilton has to strain his neck to meet Washington's stare at this angle. Washington is too tall, crowded too close, a perfect and overwhelming presence.

Hamilton's eyes dart down without his permission to Washington's mouth—barely parted lips, generous and inviting, a glimpse of perfect teeth—just for an instant. And quick as that Washington is moving, closing the last of the distance between them, pinning Hamilton with the weight of his body. Claiming Hamilton's mouth with all the force of command.

Hamilton breathes a startled sound, muffled by the kiss, and his eyes fall closed. Washington's hands are already moving on him, letting go of Hamilton's coat. One hand settles at the nape of his neck, crushing the fabric of his cravat and tilting Hamilton's head farther back, as the hot tip of Washington's tongue coaxes his startled lips apart and slides greedily past. Washington's other hand doesn't settle. It smoothes along the length of Hamilton's spine, presses to the small of his back, grasps tightly at his hip. A touch as restless as it is hungry. Hamilton finds himself arching into that touch, preening as though he really is a tomcat beneath gentle fingers, instead of a general's aide under the powerful hands of his commander in chief.

This is blasphemy. It's a breach of every military protocol. It's a court martial offense at best, and God only knows what at worst—for both of them—because Hamilton is holding on just as tightly as Washington. Fingers twisting in the back of the general's waistcoat, desperate to keep him exactly where he is as Washington takes the kiss deeper.

It's Washington who finally lets go. As sharply and suddenly as he touched Hamilton in the first place, he steps back, jerking his hands away. He turns without a word, putting his back to Hamilton, raising his defenses. The broad bulwark of his shoulders would be enough to prevent pursuit, even if Hamilton could convince a single muscle in his body to heed instructions. As it is, Hamilton is only upright because of the sturdy door at his back, his hands still half raised in the air where he was clutching at Washington a moment before. His eyes are open, and he stares straight ahead as the tumult of heat and hunger and panic gradually eases behind his ribs.

Hamilton pulls his stranded hands toward him and tucks them against his chest, gripping his own wrist. He can feel the frantic pounding of his heart. His throat has gone dry.

He's hard. Arousal strains the seams of his breeches, and he wonders if Washington knows—if he felt it in the tight press of their bodies—the crush of unexpected intimacy.

"You're dismissed." Washington's voice still sounds wrong. Graveled and strained.

"But, sir—" Hamilton is surprised his legs hold him upright when he belatedly pushes himself off the door.

"I said you are _dismissed_ ," Washington snaps in a tone that sounds more like panic than anger.

"I— Yes, sir." Hamilton nods even though Washington can't see him. Then he reaches for the door latch—throws one last glance over his shoulder even though he still can't see the general's face—and slips into the hall before he can do anything stupid.

\- — - — - — - — -

"Alexander, what the hell are you doing here?" Laurens is staring at him, looking every bit as perplexed as he sounds.

"Getting breakfast." Hamilton glares down at the cornmeal gruel on his plate—reminds himself they're lucky to have provisions at all, makes a mental note to harangue Congress again before the week is up—and walks with purpose away from the stove-fitted tent that serves as the officers' commissary. Laurens follows him all the way back to the tavern command center.

"But what are you still doing _here_?" Laurens presses. Worry has painted a shadow at the center of his brow, and he follows Hamilton inside—into the empty central floor of the tavern with its long tables and stacks of correspondence—making it clear he doesn't plan to leave without an explanation. "Why aren't you with the general?"

"This is where Washington needs me," Hamilton says. It's not quite convincing, but it's the best he's got. He can't tell even Laurens the real reason he's been left behind while Washington scouts a location to the northwest. It's a sojourn that should take several days if it goes quickly—two weeks or more if it doesn't—and under normal circumstances, Hamilton would be riding out at Washington's side.

But normal circumstances have been left behind in the dirt, and Hamilton couldn't even pretend surprise when he learned Washington would be taking Harrison and Tilghman instead. The fact that Hamilton has Washington's unquestioned proxy in the general's absence isn't much consolation, but it's the only shield he has to guard his anxious pride.

With Washington gone, Morristown is almost quiet. Even the workroom in the tavern has paused, the worst of the urgency fading with the general out of camp. The three other aides who aren't traveling with Washington are still asleep, bundled in their bedrolls in the back room. At this early hour they would normally already be up and working—and when they do rise there will be plenty to keep them busy—but for now Hamilton is the only one forfeiting the chance to reclaim lost sleep. His natural restlessness won't let him stop or slow, no matter how tempting the reprieve.

Laurens is watching him more closely now, brows dipping heavily. "Are you being punished for something?" He asks the question quietly. There's no hint of chiding, but Hamilton's pride bristles anyway.

" _No_. I'm not being punished." The words come out a little too desperately, because the truth is, punishment is exactly what this feels like.

"Okay." Laurens blinks, but the intensity doesn't fade from his features. "So?"

"Washington is expecting correspondence from General Gates," Hamilton lies. "You know how precarious our position is to the north." Laurens may not have access to the bigger picture Hamilton sees from his ever-expanding post, but he certainly knows enough for the claim to be convincing.

Laurens's brow smoothes. "You don't seem happy about it."

"Of course I'm not happy about it." This much Hamilton can afford to be honest about. He belongs in the field, not trapped on the sidelines. "I could do so much more for this army if he would let me."

"Alexander." _Now_ there's chiding in Laurens's tone. "You're already doing the jobs of six men."

"It's not enough."

Laurens gives him a strange, sad smile, then rises and claps him on the shoulder. "Nothing ever is." He heads for the door but pauses on the threshold, turning a pointed look at Hamilton over his shoulder. "You know where to find me if you need to talk."

"Thanks," Hamilton says. But he already knows he won't.

He loves John like a brother, trusts the man with his life. Laurens is the closest he's ever come to confiding in _anyone_ the secret hell of his own childhood. But this is different. This isn't just his own ugly past kept at a distance. This is immediate and damning, and even if Hamilton wanted to explain, he wouldn't know where to begin.

Alexander Hamilton is a man of the quill, but even he doesn't have words for the dreams he's been waking from ever since Washington touched him. Barely a week, and he's already lost so much focus, so much _time_ , because he can't stop thinking about Washington's hands. Washington's sturdy heat. Washington's weight bracing him against the door.

The inescapable command of Washington's mouth on his.

These are all things it never occurred to him to want before. But now he's had a taste, and he can't turn his relentless mind off the path. The fact that it's wrong isn't enough to stop him wanting. If anything it just fans the flames higher. Hamilton has never responded well to being told there are things he can't be, can't do, can't _have_.

He doesn't like being told no. He likes it even less when it's done at a wordless distance. The past week—the days before Washington's departure—were strained and measured, and Hamilton wasn't able to catch Washington alone. The general is too much a strategist. Unless Hamilton wanted to make a scene, he had no choice but to wait in bristling silence for a chance to… what? Speak his mind? Demand an explanation? Rebuke his own commander in chief?

Beg Washington to touch him again?

Maybe it's for the best Washington left without seeing him. Maybe some time and distance will quiet the worst of the fire in Hamilton's blood, and help reassert the rule of reason over his unruly heart and libido. Maybe when Washington returns, Hamilton will be better equipped to pretend nothing untoward has passed between them. They have a war to win. Neither of them can afford such dangerous distractions.

If Hamilton wills himself to believe it, maybe it will turn out to be true.

\- — - — - — - — -

After a week and a half afield, Washington has found no semblance of the peace or distance he needs. His mind is a conflicted battleground as he rides back into Morristown with his scouting contingent. Relief at returning to the relative comfort of the army encampment, frustration over the fact that he can't be everywhere at once, worry for whatever urgent business he might have missed. The last of these troubles him less than the rest, because Hamilton is here—but such reassurance only leads him to the other mingled strain on his attention.

There's guilt, and the knowledge he has already put off too long the conversation he needs to have with the young man. During every moment he can spare from more urgent matters, Washington has been trying to find the right words to apologize; so far he has failed completely. Now that he's back in camp, he will need to make time for this conversation anyway.

Worse than the guilt is the nagging voice of greedier instincts at the back of his mind. After months of watching—of _wanting_ —he can't entirely quiet the part of him wondering just how much more Hamilton would give if Washington asked.

It's a monstrous thought, and one he refuses to entertain. That Hamilton didn't rebuff him is irrelevant. That Hamilton is the mouthiest, pushiest member of his staff is equally irrelevant; because as demanding and stubborn as Hamilton can be in the face of his superiors, his deference to Washington has always been complete.

Even if it weren't—even if Hamilton held him in the same mutinous disregard he reserves for other high ranking officers—Washington would need to repair the damage he's done. To take such liberties—to assault a subordinate, no matter how the attentions might have been received—is unpardonable. If anyone under his command behaved the same, they would be courtmartialed straight out of the army. Washington hasn't the luxury of holding himself to the same rigors of justice, but the hypocrisy of his own behavior burns at him.

Who is he to command thousands of men, when he can't even command himself?

His return to camp goes barely remarked amid the troops, whose training regimen has continued the same in his absence. The busy flurry of his aides is also unchanged. It's as though he hasn't been away. Everything has run smoothly without him, and Washington has no doubts or delusions as to why.

"Your Excellency." Hamilton is at his side the second Washington steps into the tavern, handing him a small sheaf of ink-filled paper. "A briefing on actions necessary during your absence."

Washington accepts the handoff, careful to touch only the foolscap and not Hamilton's fingers. He can feel Hamilton's eyes burning into his profile, and finds himself wondering what thoughts are occupying that brilliant mind. Certainly questions stemming from Washington's poorly judged actions, and the unfinished business between them.

"Thank you, my boy," Washington says, his habitual reply. Beside him Alexander stiffens barely perceptibly, and Washington's chest tightens, a rush of curses rising unspoken at the back of his throat. With difficulty, Washington keeps his voice level. "I'll expect a more detailed briefing after I'm settled. Carry on."

It's a relief to scrub away the dirt and grime of travel, and to change into a fresh uniform. He feels instantly more at ease, if not entirely calm, and when he sits down at his desk he finds his work has been prepared for him. Correspondence already sorted from most urgent matters to those that can afford to wait a few days. Ink pots refilled, quills freshly sharpened. Washington knows who to credit for this foresight as well. When he reviews Hamilton's tightly crafted briefing he finds nothing unusual or amiss. Nothing requiring more detailed explanation.

He summons Hamilton anyway, though he waits until well after the dinner hour. Because he's a coward. And because there _is_ urgent work to be done. And because he still does not know what to say.

The sky through the tiny window is oppressively dark, but between the fireplace and the flickering glow of lantern and candlelight, Washington is still at work. He can't delegate everything. He freezes at the quiet pace of footsteps growing louder on the stairs, approaching along the hall. Then the door swings inward, which would tell him who's arriving even if he hadn't just summoned Hamilton to his office. No one else opens that door without a call of permission to enter.

The approaching footsteps halt, and Washington raises his eyes from his work. "Leave the door open," he orders before Hamilton can nudge it shut behind him.

Hamilton blinks, obviously thrown by the departure from tradition, and then his expression clears. He's too clever not to grasp what Washington is doing. Washington only prays he doesn't intuit past the rationales of discretion and accountability to the more honest truth: that Washington doesn't quite trust himself with that door closed. Even now he remains behind his desk instead of standing to address Hamilton face-to-face.

Washington sets his work aside with trepidation, and takes Hamilton in with an eye as critical as it is appreciative. Hamilton's hair is pulled back imperfectly from his face, a handful of strands escaping around the edges. There's exhaustion in Hamilton's shoulders despite the fact that he's standing at stiff attention, familiar circles beneath his eyes—Washington has yet to learn what the young man looks like well rested—but also an air of defiance. Like he knows perfectly well the rest of Washington's staff took his absence as a reprieve, but not Hamilton. Hamilton surely filled any spare moments with his own studies, or more of the anonymous political essays Washington pretends not to know his aide continues to publish.

But even exhausted, Hamilton is far too pretty for his own good. There's something in the constant, quiet hum of energy that suffuses him—something in the almost frantic excitement he wears like another layer of his uniform—that draws attention like a beacon.

Washington frowns, shoves all such dangerous and indulgent thoughts aside. "I owe you an apology, Colonel." Hamilton visibly flinches at the unaccustomed use of his rank. Washington pretends not to notice as he continues, "My behavior toward you has been inexcusable."

"Sir—" Hamilton starts, but Washington shakes his head shortly, silencing him. He's impressed when Hamilton's mouth snaps shut instead of continuing to speak.

Restless and on edge, Washington stands. He circles toward the fireplace to avoid looking Hamilton directly in the eye. Again he feels like a coward—he _should_ be able to look Hamilton in the eye—and he can feel the young man's focus following him. Wisely, Hamilton stays standing exactly where he is, still at attention halfway between the door and Washington's cluttered desk. Waiting, if not quite patiently, then at least silently.

"I can't arrange an alternate post for you." Washington clasps his hands together behind his back, glares down into the crackling flames of the hearth. His boots, freshly cleaned, shine almost enough to reflect the shivering edges of firelight. "Your skills, your discretion… I can't spare you from my staff. If we're going to win this war, I need you _here_."

Hamilton remains uncharacteristically silent behind him, and Washington forces himself _not_ to turn around. He is remembering too vividly the wide, wild eyes Hamilton turned on him in those seconds before Washington's actions became irrevocable. The startled sound in Hamilton's throat when Washington kissed him. The tight grasp of warm fingers in the linen of his shirtsleeves.

Hamilton's immediate, melting submission beneath his hands—unexpected and dangerously perfect. Martha would be ashamed of him if she knew; but of course, Martha will never know.

Washington is as wary of the open hall door as he is certain of the necessity for it, and he measures his next words with exhaustive care. "I shouldn't have waited so long to speak with you. I… can only imagine what you must think of me."

He wants to touch Hamilton again. Wants to take that beautiful face between his hands and claim a kiss that shows Alexander Hamilton _exactly_ to whom he belongs. He has spent more than two weeks remembering the sounds and sensations of what was only a kiss—and imagining what sounds Hamilton might make at further urging.

He is painfully aware of the contradiction, the disconnect between his better and baser selves when he concludes, "All I can give you is my promise that it won't happen again."

"Is that all, sir?" Hamilton's voice is as quiet and unassuming as Washington has ever heard.

Washington turns from the fireplace, keeping his hands clasped tightly at his back. He finds Hamilton watching him with an expression so cryptic Washington can't parse it—a singular occurrence, considering the unrepentant honesty Hamilton usually wears on his face. Even uncharacteristically guarded, it's obvious Hamilton's brilliant mind is winding itself like a pocket watch, but Washington can't fathom what might be going on behind those dark, intelligent eyes.

"Yes," Washington says at last. "You're dismissed."

Hamilton nods. Turns for the hall, takes several steps to the threshold, and sets one hand to the smooth wooden edge of the door. He stops there. Stands perfectly still for an instant and an eternity. And then pushes the door closed.

Hamilton is still standing inside the office, and Washington abruptly forgets how to breathe.

Hamilton's hand lingers on the latch, his body inclined toward the door, forehead practically touching the wood. But his voice has returned to its usual stubborn tones when he says, "What if I don't want your promise?"

Washington sucks in a sharp breath. "Son—"

"I'm not your son." Hamilton turns and there's a distracting amalgam of uncertainty and hunger in his eyes. It's a look Washington has seen on him before—they've lived so much in each other pockets the past months of this campaign, there are few expressions he _hasn't_ seen on Hamilton's face—but never like this. Never directed at _him_. Never with quite so hesitant an air of self-consciousness and doubt along for the ride. There's no mistaking this for anything but an offer.

It's an offer Washington can't accept.

Hamilton seems to sense they're at an impasse—at least, Washington assumes that's why he doesn't approach. Why he falls quiet again, as though allowing extra time to process the words.

Instead of drawing nearer to Washington, he crosses the room, moving with all the usual speed of nervous energy, to linger at the edge of Washington's desk. Hamilton reaches for scattered papers. Gathering, sorting, straightening. Capping the open bottle of ink. Returning an errant quill to the stand at the left edge of the desk. When the surface is clear and he has no more pretext for the restlessness of his hands, Hamilton simply presses his palms flat to the smooth oak.

Washington resolves to stay exactly where he is. At a safe distance. Which leaves him perplexed at the way his boots carry him forward instead, until he's looming immediately behind Hamilton. Close enough to touch. Washington clenches his hands at his sides.

"Sir, you've always valued my candor," Hamilton says. "So I won't prevaricate now. If you want me, I'm yours."

For an instant, Washington's vision blurs at the edges, heat rising at the blunt assertion. His breath hitches, and it's all he can do to keep his arms at his sides. Motionless, but desperate to move.

"You don't know what you're saying." Washington hears his own protest as though the words are being spoken at a distance, by someone else. Someone who is ready to shatter at any moment—he seems to have misplaced his iron resolve.

"I know enough," Hamilton retorts, and suddenly Washington wishes he could see Hamilton's face.

"I'm a married man."

"That didn't stop you before." The words are far too knowing, without any trace of remorse. As if Hamilton is confident Washington's marital vows are the least of the arguments to be overcome—and Washington hates himself more than a little for the fact that Hamilton is right. He loves his wife, but it's not thoughts of Martha that are staying his hand.

" _Anyone_ could walk in and discover us." Never mind that no one but Hamilton enters this office unannounced—the risk is still far too great—the chance of discovery and ruin too high.

"I locked the door."

Washington turns, startled at that last, and glances over his shoulder. The key _is_ in the lock—he had forgotten Hamilton possessed it during Washington's absence from Morristown—securely turned. And the last of his resolve crumbles. There's a moment of complete stillness, a silence that shivers and ricochets with anticipation, and Washington forces himself to draw a slow breath.

Then he reaches up with one hand and looses Hamilton's hair from the tight ribbon confining it. Dark strands fall free, and Washington's whole body tightens at the sound of Hamilton's sharp inhale of surprise. A spike of arousal hits him, almost painful, and Washington closes his eyes for a moment. Just a handful of seconds. Not reconsidering—it's too late to cross back to safety and deniability now—but grounding himself in the knowledge that if he's doing this, he needs to do it right. He needs to make it good, not just slake his own selfish desires.

He _will_ make it good. Not gentle—instinct tells him gentle isn't what Hamilton wants or needs—but _good_.

Collected—or as near as he can manage—he opens his eyes and raises his hand again, this time twining his fingers in the long, surprisingly soft strands of Hamilton's hair. Hamilton breathes a sound that's almost a sigh, leaning into the touch. Washington allows this for a moment, brushes his fingers along Hamilton's scalp. Then, without warning, he tightens his hand into a fist—catching Hamilton's hair in a tight grip and using the leverage to force his head back, to bare his throat. Show him _exactly_ how this is going to go.

Hamilton whimpers—honest to God _whimpers_ —and the sound goes straight to Washington's already stiffening cock. Now, at this angle, Washington can see Hamilton's face in profile. He can see that Hamilton's eyes have fallen shut, that Hamilton's bottom lip is caught between his teeth, that his cheeks are flushed with heat.

"Is this what you want?" Washington's voice is thick and rough and strained. He tightens his fist—his grip must be downright painful now—but Hamilton only chokes back a moan and holds perfectly still.

With his free hand, Washington fumbles at Hamilton's cravat, yanking the fabric away. Discarding it without care for where it will land. The naked skin of Hamilton's throat is smooth and perfect, straining at the taut angle Washington is forcing him to hold. He can't resist touching, lets his fingers stroke teasingly along the length of the muscle straining beneath flushed skin, before curling his whole hand beneath Hamilton's jaw in a firmer touch.

Hamilton responds by swaying back, the curve of his spine hot against Washington's chest, closing the sliver of distance between them. The brush of his body is enough to tighten the coil of heat in Washington's gut. It could be unintentional, the way Hamilton's backside presses against his cock, but somehow Washington doesn't think so. Nothing Hamilton does is truly unintentional.

He drops his fingers from Hamilton's throat, but doesn't loosen the grip of his other hand. That tantalizing stretch of skin is too much to resist, and Washington leans forward to taste. He presses a soft kiss under Hamilton's jaw, relishing a possessive thrill at the rush of Hamilton's pulse beneath his mouth. He follows a path lower, pressing harder now, letting his tongue trace down and down. He pauses at the stiff edge of Hamilton's shirt collar. Then, carefully, closes his teeth over smooth, sensitive skin. Biting slowly and deliberately, sucking hard at the spot. Unrelenting as he marks Hamilton, where no one will see, but both of them will know.

His free hand has slid to Hamilton's chest, holding him steady, but it slides lower now. His palm presses flat to Hamilton's stomach, a tease or a promise, and Hamilton's touch is abruptly covering Washington's. Holding on tight and desperate.

Washington takes his time. He doesn't withdraw his attentions from Hamilton's throat until he's satisfied that the bruise he's leaving will linger for days. Hamilton groans when Washington's mouth releases him, shivers when Washington untangles his punishing grip from Hamilton's hair and lets his hands fall away.

"Sir?" Hamilton sounds breathless and uncertain, despite the way Washington's body still crowds along his back.

Rather than answer the complicated questions carried in that one word, Washington drops his hands to narrow hips and uses the leverage to make Hamilton turn and face him. He doesn't back off, doesn't add any measure of distance between them. Hamilton's disheveled hair is a mess framing his face, giving him a manic air—or maybe the suggestion of mania comes from the dilated eyes, the winded expression, the bright blush that reaches all the way to Hamilton's ears.

A wild rush of possessiveness spears through Washington at the sight, and he wonders if anyone else has seen Alexander Hamilton like this. He knows the young man's reputation—knows about the dozens of women Hamilton has certainly coaxed into his bed, and has heard tall tales of some hundred more—but he can't imagine Alexander in anything but complete control of those moments. He wonders if Hamilton has ever let another man touch him this way, and he thinks not—hopes not—because Washington genuinely cannot bear the idea.

He wants too many things at once now, and a helpless growl twists in his chest as he curls his fingers at the nape of Hamilton's neck and reels him in for a kiss. He doesn't measure his own strength as he crushes Hamilton hard against him, claiming that willing mouth with a greedy thrust of his tongue. Slim fingers clutch at Washington's arms with surprising strength through the blue fabric of his uniform.

Without relinquishing the kiss, Washington slips his free hand between their bodies, questing for the fastenings of Hamilton's waistcoat—struggling to undo them without tearing buttons or fabric—then slides his hand under both it and the white linen shirt beneath, pressing cold fingers to shivering skin. He strokes lightly along Hamilton's flank, then smoothes his fingers along the small of his back. Nothing tentative in the touch now that they're here; Washington knows full well that all of this is his for the taking.

His cock aches, maddened by the tease of insufficient friction. And of course, in this position it's impossible not to feel a matching hardness pressed to his hip. He needs more. They both do.

So he shifts his focus. Deftly undoing the buttons of Hamilton's breeches—barely startling when Hamilton's clever hands dart between their bodies to return the favor. But when Hamilton tries to slide a hand past parted fabric in search of skin, Washington grabs him hard by the wrist, stopping him. Drawing his hand pointedly away and breaking the kiss to murmur a single, simple demand.

"Let me."

Because even though Washington aches for release, he wants this first. A chance to watch Hamilton come apart. Their eyes meet in an unbreakable stare, but when Washington releases his wrist, Hamilton waits obediently. Again Washington finds himself wanting too many things at once, struggling to focus on one desire at a time. He reaches for Hamilton's coat, urging it from his shoulders. Hamilton catches on quickly, shrugging out from beneath worn blue fabric and letting it fall heavily to the ground, followed by Hamilton's white waistcoat. The shirt goes a moment later, loose fabric drowning Hamilton for a moment as Washington drags it over his head and then casts it aside.

Hamilton looks ridiculously vulnerable, naked but for his boots and breeches. Compact, handsome—too skinny, but there's nothing to be done for it until they receive sufficient supplies—Hamilton is all slim lines and narrow edges. A hundred places Washington wants to touch.

"Now the rest," Washington says—snaps it like an order—suddenly impatient. He needs the complete picture: every inch of Alexander Hamilton naked before him. And relief is only one of the feelings lodged in his throat when Hamilton hastens to comply. Working the boots off his feet, shucking free of breeches, leggings, stockings. Baring himself for the hungry sweep of Washington's eyes.

"That's my boy," Washington murmurs, and can't help a wolfish smile when a visible shiver trembles the length of Hamilton's body.

Hamilton must surely be cold—even with the fire blazing high, the room is chilly—but he makes no complaint as Washington savors the view. He stands still, leaning back against the edge of Washington's desk, clearly uncertain what to do with his own nakedness. Hamilton's skin is marred in places by the melted-wax patterns of scar tissue, and in other places by wounds that are still healing. Even an aide de camp isn't free from all danger in a war like this. The truth is, Washington would sequester Hamilton away from all harm if he could. If the war would allow him; if Hamilton would agree to stay put.

Hamilton's cock stands at stiff attention, and Washington smiles. He's waited long enough.

He's aware of the new disparity between them, himself fully clothed, Hamilton without a stitch of armor. He closes the distance between them anyway, using his own weight to press Hamilton hard against the desk's unforgiving edge. He twines his fingers more gently in Hamilton's hair this time, as he urges Hamilton to look up into his face—as Washington's other hand ghosts downward, then firmly circles the straining line of Hamilton's cock.

Hamilton's eyes fall closed, and he makes a sound that could as easily be torment as pleasure. His tongue sneaks out to wet his lips, a thoughtless gesture that makes Washington's own prick strain all the harder against the fabric of his uniform. He ignores his own discomfort, and gives a tight stroke along Hamilton's warm length.

"Open your eyes," Washington orders, and it takes several seconds for Hamilton to obey.

When he manages, those dark eyes look unfocused and lost. Staring up at Washington in a bleary heat haze.

"Keep them open," Washington says.

Impossibly, Hamilton does. He meets Washington's eyes with unmeasured stubbornness, even as his breathing turns ragged, even as Washington strokes and squeezes and touches him—carrying him closer and closer—even as it becomes obvious that orgasm is about to overtake him.

"Good boy," Washington murmurs. "That's enough, Alexander. You can let go."

Hamilton shudders, and his eyes snap shut. Washington kisses him once more, swallowing the groan—the shout of pleasure—as Hamilton spends himself slick and hot across Washington's fingers.

Washington holds on for a long time after, bracing Hamilton up against the desk, ignoring the still violent need in his own body. His uniform will need cleaning—he'll have to do it himself for fear of the wrong questions—but he finds it impossible to care about that now, wiping his hands carelessly against his breeches. He allows the moment to linger in dumbstruck silence, until at last Hamilton stirs. Tensing in his arms, opening his eyes to look Washington in the face.

"What about you, sir?"

Their gazes are locked, and there are entire treatises in the way Hamilton is looking at him now. Pointed. Intelligent. Hungry.

Washington hesitates only a moment. Then, with a quirk of one eyebrow to convey that Hamilton doesn't have to do this if it isn't what he wants, Washington takes a single backward step and sets a heavy hand on Hamilton's shoulder. Gives it the span of a heartbeat. Then _pushes down_.

Hamilton doesn't resist. He allows himself to be forced to his knees, landing on the crumpled heap of his own uniform. This time, when he slips a hand past the parted fabric of Washington's clothing, Washington makes no move to stop him. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth at the first touch of Hamilton's clever fingers, inhales through his nose at the sensation of cool air as Hamilton draws his cock into the open.

He can see from the minute widening of Hamilton's eyes that this is all well beyond the young man's experience, but there's also familiar bravado. A stubborn confidence that stops him backing down from any challenge. Even—especially—a challenge like this.

Before Washington can consider telling him to stop—he doesn't need this, no matter how badly he might want it—Hamilton is opening his mouth and drawing him shallowly in. Washington gasps aloud, has to brace a hand against the edge of the desk. His knuckles creak, his grip on the wood straining tighter as Hamilton's curious tongue circles him, tasting him with an almost tentative aura of worship. Washington still has his other hand grasping tightly at Hamilton's shoulder, and he forces his grip to slacken even as Hamilton bobs lower, drawing him deeper into the wet heat of that perfect mouth.

Washington groans and cups the back of Hamilton's skull, struggling to keep his touch gentle. He's terrified of how easy it would be to wrest control away, to turn this into something frantic and forceful. To shift this moment from eager and unhurried exploration into a more violent claiming. Hamilton would let him. Hamilton might even welcome a more forceful touch. He certainly wouldn't resist if Washington held on tighter and set his own pace, fucking Hamilton's willing mouth.

But at the cost of… this. Whatever this is. This cautious intimacy twining between them, coiling tight, igniting giddy agony beneath Washington's skin. No mounting urgency will convince him to shatter this moment.

He's holding himself deliberately back as Hamilton's ministrations grow more confident, and it requires every fragment of willpower he possesses to keep orgasm at bay when Hamilton—Goddamn stubborn, talented, precocious Hamilton—relaxes his throat and swallows Washington all the way down. Taking the entire length of him for just a moment before retreating, drawing entirely back and letting Washington's cock slip from his mouth. There's smugness written across his features when Washington's gaze darts down to Hamilton's face.

For several seconds they simply stare at each other. Hamilton obviously pleased with himself, eyes alight, cheeks warm with color. Washington winded and overwhelmed, painfully aware that he is no longer in command of this situation—if he even subscribes to the delusion that he ever was. Then Hamilton shifts his weight, and Washington realizes Hamilton is hard again, cock curving stiffly upward untouched.

"Sir." Hamilton's voice sounds rough and high with arousal. "I have… a suggestion."

Washington's brow lowers and furrows. He wonders if, under more coherent circumstances, he might be able to intuit something from Hamilton's words. As it is, he can't think past the way Hamilton's right hand is still closed around the base of Washington's prick, stroking almost idly.

As though realizing Washington is in no condition to answer him, Hamilton continues. "Instead of my mouth, sir. You could—"

" _No_." Even as he speaks his refusal, Washington's cock twitches with interest. It's a tell Hamilton can't possibly miss, given their current positions.

In the next moment, when Hamilton's hand withdraws and leaves Washington untouched, Washington curses aloud—an indulgence he almost never allows—and closes his eyes for only an instant. When he opens them again, he expects to find Hamilton grinning up at him. But Hamilton's expression is serious. Intent, as he peers up at Washington from the floor.

"Please," Hamilton says softly. Washington never would have guessed that seeing Alexander Hamilton beg would leave him so hot and flustered.

"My boy—"

Hamilton rises smoothly to his feet, cutting off Washington's protest and forcing him to make space for Hamilton between the general and the oak desk. He looks suddenly, inexpressibly helpless. Hungry in a lost, desperate way that only manages to make his young face more beautiful. It's Hamilton who nudges forward and initiates a kiss this time, drawing Washington hard against him. Pleading with tools other than his endless, impossible words.

When they break apart, Washington doesn't release Hamilton from the circle of his arms—and Hamilton makes no move to escape.

"I'm not going to sodomize you, Alexander."

"But you want to." The words are spoken so simply, and with so little shame. There's no judgment in Hamilton's eyes. No hint at all that he has any moral qualms about what he's asking Washington to do.

"It's a capital crime." The truth of the assertion aches in Washington's throat.

"They would just as soon hang us for everything else we've done," Hamilton points out, and Washington inhales hard. Because Hamilton is right, and the knowledge hasn't stopped him so far. He's already a hypocrite and a sinner—is there any real reason _not_ to give in to this temptation, too?

"I could hurt you," he murmurs, soft and honest. The one reason that might still hold him back.

"You won't," Hamilton says. And he sounds so completely sure, so confident and unafraid. There's nothing Washington can do but believe him.

He's too warm now—from their exertions, from his own mounting fever of need, from the warmth of Hamilton's body solid in his arms—and he shrugs out of his own uniform, the coat thudding quietly to the floor.

"Let me help," Hamilton says, and his hands are there. Struggling with Washington's remaining buttons, shoving and tugging at fabric, until Washington's own chest and shoulders are bare to the cool air of the room. Now that he's half naked, the contrast between himself and Hamilton is only more pronounced—the distinct differences in their size and stature—the blood-warming way his own body looms so much taller than Hamilton. It would be so easy, too easy, to simply hold Hamilton down and _take_ —a thought that leaves Washington feeling both guilty and aflame at once—and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Will himself back from the edge, lest he lose himself too soon.

When he opens his eyes again, Hamilton is watching him unabashedly, greedy hunger in the raking path of dark eyes.

"You'll tell me if it's too much," Washington says roughly.

"Sir?"

"I mean it. Consider this an order. You _will_ tell me if it's too much, or if you need to stop. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Hamilton says in a voice gone thin and tight.

"Okay," Washington says. Then, without warning or hesitation, he grabs Hamilton by the shoulders and shoves him to face the desk. An instant of surprise is all he allows before pushing, bending Hamilton forward over the smooth surface—thank God the desk is mostly clear—and holding him down with nothing but a hand at the base of his neck.

The stiffness of surprise melts almost instantly from Hamilton's body, and he turns his head to the side, breathes a low sigh that rustles a stack of papers at the far edge of the desk. Washington smoothes his palm down the length of Hamilton's spine, rests it at the small of his back.

Hamilton doesn't ask how Washington knows what he's doing—and Washington has no intention of asking how Hamilton seems to know what to expect—and the moment stretches almost frantic between them, need mounting to a fever pitch before they've even begun. If only they were better prepared for this, if only Washington had something slick to ease the way—but they aren't, and he doesn't—and what they're doing is already tempting fate without the added risk of seeking out supplies.

He doesn't ask if Hamilton has done this before. He doesn't need to; it's obvious, despite Hamilton's knowing bravado, that the answer is no. Just one more truth Hamilton wears right out in the open.

Washington leans forward, bracing one arm on the desk and, on the other side, touching Hamilton's mouth with a steady hand. Two fingers press to the seam of soft lips, which part at the first hard nudge, allowing the digits inside.

"Get them good and wet," Washington growls in Hamilton's ear, praying it will be enough. Never before has he been quite so glad that his own cock leaks so copiously when he's aroused. He's already slick from the work of Hamilton's mouth—perhaps they really can do this. Despite his orders, he doesn't trust Hamilton to stop him in the face of discomfort or pain, which means Washington will have to keep close watch with his own senses. Guard them both against Hamilton's stubborn nature.

He draws his fingers from Hamilton's mouth and straightens his body, seeking quickly between Hamilton's thighs—pressing both fingers past the tight rim of Hamilton's ass, as smoothly and carefully as he can. Hamilton breathes a curse, spine arching, hands curling into fists atop the desk. Washington stills with his fingers pressed deep. Waiting, fiercely aware of the unsteady thrum of Hamilton's body tensing around his touch.

"Relax, Alexander." With his free hand, Washington rubs soothingly at the base of Hamilton's spine. Hamilton trembles, draws a slow breath, and then—before Washington can wonder if they need to stop this after all—the hot clench of his body eases. "Good boy. Just like that." Then, gentle and cautious—barely aware now of his own straining need—Washington begins to move his fingers.

He's slow, methodical, careful. Adds more spit when the friction is too much, listens closely to the sounds Hamilton makes beneath his touch. Every shocky gasp, every groan and inhale, every plea for _more_. Washington doesn't give him more—not yet, not until he's sure—just continues the torment with all the measured control he can muster.

When neither of them can stand to wait a second longer, Washington slips his fingers from Hamilton's body and takes himself in hand. His cock slips in his own grasp, slick and ready to spend in earnest, and he grips the base for a moment—willing the storm to subside—willing himself back under control, if only for a moment.

Hamilton has pressed up onto his elbows on the desk, twisting to peer over his shoulder at Washington. A desperate flash of hunger brightens his features and makes him look something other than human. Washington drops his weight forward, blanketing Hamilton's back, thrilling at the warm touch of bare skin.

"Do you think you can keep quiet?" Washington murmurs the question directly in Hamilton's ear, lips brushing the lobe.

"No," Hamilton gasps, shivering beneath him. "I really don't."

Washington could almost laugh at the honesty of it, if he weren't on fire straight down to the marrow of his bones. As it is he doesn't even speak. Just shifts his arm on the desk so that he can reach the way he needs to—so that he can cover Hamilton's mouth with his free hand, muffling any wayward sounds that might escape. He can feel the rush of air over his skin as Hamilton inhales through his nose, and he can feel the soft warmth of lips against his palm.

The instant _before_ stretches taut—an irrevocable eternity—and then, steadying himself, breathing raggedly, Washington presses his cock forward into tight heat.

Hamilton's shout, muffled by Washington's hand, still ricochets through him like a cannonball. Washington's whole body burns with need as he ruts forward, fucking himself deeper into Hamilton's body, hyperaware of the way tight muscles struggle to relax around him. Washington's cock may be more slick than his fingers, but it's a whole lot bigger, and he pauses when he's as deep as he can go—pauses even though the effort is almost physically painful—giving Hamilton time to adjust.

He drops his hand from Hamilton's mouth, because if Hamilton is going to protest—if he's going to beg for a ceasefire—Washington needs to be able to hear it. But the only things to come out of Hamilton's mouth when he's free are a barely coherent string of _yes_ and _oh God_ and _more_.

When Washington straightens up and draws back, he means to be gentle. But then Hamilton breathes a low, needy sound—a wordless plea—and the last of Washington's fragile restraint snaps. His hips jolt forward, cock driving deep and hard. Somehow, despite the force of it, Hamilton manages to keep his voice down. The raw, ragged gasp that escapes him is pure arousal, and Washington fills him with a second hard thrust. The desk is too heavy to be moved by their efforts, but Hamilton's body jostles against the unforgiving surface, the hard edge of the desktop. Vulnerable and perfect and unresisting.

"Please," Hamilton is whispering now, groaning the words between uneven gasps for air. "Sir, _please_ —harder, please, God—please touch me—"

Washington has been holding Hamilton by the hips, gripping so hard he suspects Hamilton will be wearing the bruises of his fingerprints nearly as long as the mark at his throat, but he lets go now. Drops his full weight forward again, reaching one hand to cover Hamilton's shaking fingers. Washington's other hand slips below the edge of the desk, finding the hard length of Hamilton's cock.

He barely manages to cover Hamilton's mouth again before the cry of pleasure escapes—should have seen that one coming. He strokes Hamilton in earnest, in time with his own powerful thrusts, even as those thrusts grow more frantic and irregular.

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton gasps when Washington lets go to let him breathe. "Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes—" Low, quiet, desperate, ferocious with need. Washington feels the same need coursing through his own blood, the same approaching crest threatening to carry him away.

This time he doesn't fight it. He kisses Hamilton's shoulder—bites down as the rush overtakes him, whiting out all sensation. As he recognizes his own slick release, buried deep inside Hamilton's willing body, he's peripherally aware of Hamilton's second orgasm spilling across his fingers, a rapturous unison as the two men spend themselves together.

Somehow Hamilton manages to keep quiet, despite the fact that Washington is in no position to help him.

\- — - — - — - — -

Hamilton aches the next day. His limbs are stiff, his muscles exhausted, and his ass—

He's never been quite so aware of his ass before, or quite so pleased with any form of physical discomfort. The reminder is maddening—an undercurrent of distraction humming beneath every task he tries to focus on. He thanks God he's always been good at multitasking. One corner of his mind can wander more prurient directions while the rest of him continues as stubbornly efficient as always. He _will not_ give the general cause to doubt this new and tenuous arrangement between them.

Since sitting on the stiff wooden stools of the tavern is especially unbearable, Hamilton spends as much of the day as possible busy at other errands. Anything that will keep him on his feet, keep him moving—and hopefully keep him from the path of John Laurens.

Because if anyone will know just by looking at Hamilton that something is up? It'll be John.

"Alexander!" Laurens's voice stops him in his tracks in the middle of the path.

Hamilton reminds himself that there's no visible sign to give him away. He took extra care with his appearance this morning, and his hair and uniform are as close to perfect as he ever manages. He just needs to keep every thought he has from showing openly on his face. Surely he can manage that for once in his life.

"Laurens, good morning." Not far from them is the southern edge of town, and beyond that a wide open patch of land where men are running through rigorous drills and target practice. The shouted orders of officers echo through the air, loud and regular.

Laurens jogs the last few paces to catch up to him, familiar grin on his face. He claps a hand to Hamilton's shoulder when he draws close, and Hamilton has to forcefully shove aside an image of Washington's strong hand on his shoulder as Hamilton sank to his knees. It doesn't help that John's thumb has landed directly over the dark bruise at the base of his throat, securely hidden by the frill of a fresh cravat, but still sensitive to the slightest touch.

"You—" Whatever Laurens is about to say, he hesitates. His sharp smile softens as he peers into Hamilton's face.

The best way to guard his secrets is pure bluster, so Hamilton looks his friend squarely in the eye and asks, "What's wrong?"

Laurens drops his hand from Hamilton's shoulder. "You look… different." Then his eyes widen. "Did you _sleep_ last night?"

Hamilton blinks, startled at the realization himself. "I did sleep more than usual." Which, they both know, means more than the scant couple hours he usually allows himself. The truth is, he was so sated and exhausted by the time he left Washington's office, that he crashed immediately. Where normally he would have worked late into the night on his own projects, well past the time his fellow aides disappeared into the crowded sleeping room, Hamilton had crawled immediately into his bedroll. For once in his brief and harrowing life, he fell asleep without difficulty, without having to do battle with the violent energy of his own restless mind.

Curious, that a single night's sufficient rest sits so obvious on his face. It makes Hamilton wish for a mirror to observe the change himself.

"Are you okay?" Laurens asks, brow firmly furrowed.

Hamilton laughs, a short bark of genuine amusement. Because Laurens knows him better than anyone; which means he understands better than most just how unusual—how _impossible_ —an occurrence this really is.

"You don't have to look at me like that." He gives his friend's arm a reassuring squeeze. "Nothing is wrong. Believe me." Then, following the bright truth with something that isn't quite a lie, "I was just tired."

"You're always tired," Laurens points out. But he's smiling. Accepting this strange happenstance without real protest.

It takes several minutes before Hamilton manages to part ways from his friend, and he spends the entire time anxious that he's going to say or do something to give himself away. Miraculously he does no such thing.

He touches his cravat when Laurens is gone, deliberately pressing the deep bruise beneath. He smiles at the ache beneath his skin, the vivid surge of memory.

Not just the memory of Washington's mouth and hands claiming him—though of course he's drowning in those as well—but also the quiet moments after. The unexpected intimacy of being assisted back into his clothing, a presumption that might have galled him in any other context, but somehow in that moment… didn't. There was wordless but unmistakable care in the touch of Washington's steady hands, doing up the buttons of his waistcoat and helping to rearrange the squashed cravat at Hamilton's throat.

Though neither of them spoke a single word in the surreal aftermath of their activities, Hamilton doesn't think he imagined the flash of perfect understanding that passed between them. A wordless agreement to share this dangerous secret, to stop fighting the inevitable, and see where this goes.

Washington won't call for him today in the absence of an emergency, but tonight…

Tonight Washington _will_ summon him. Hamilton is sure of it. And for the moment, that certainty is everything he needs.

\- — - — fin — - — -


End file.
